


Finally, Grass

by comradeocean



Category: History Boys - Bennett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-28
Updated: 2008-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comradeocean/pseuds/comradeocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now he is green, dry and stained. With the shadow in his mouth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally, Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started for oxoniensis's Porn Battle. Over word and time limit, as per.  
> Disclaimers: The usual. Movieverse. fluffy fluffy FLUFF!  
> Note: Feedback is always welcome.

It is always late afternoons on Sundays, with just enough light to read by, when they sit in the quad, backs propped up by the tree. Even when Scripps knows that it's close enough to finals for the time to be better spent revising, neither of them seems to be able to bear breaking this tentative tradition they've worked out by tacit agreement in showing up week after week rather than through any spoken contracts. A departure from the previous sort of Sunday activities in which Scripps had partaken - though come to think of it, Posner had been there more often than not, a lone figure waiting outside, half-perched on a bicycle.

Perching is a state Posner seems to default on. Even when he's reading half-asleep, head pillowed on Scripps' thigh, his body seems to be held up, aloof from the grass. This is another thing that has developed over the term, a slow loosening of physical boundaries such that it now seems natural for them to sprawl and drape themselves over each other. Scripps wonders for a moment if it's too contradictory a concept: to both drape and perch in the same instant, but Posner breaths a warm trailing poof of air across his thighs and he becomes distracted.

It isn't normal. To be this hormonal. Scripps remembers sixteen, the uncomfortable heightened awareness of anything curved, anything wet, pens clipping snugly into their caps would set him off, the fit of candles to their holders. Puberty is back with a vengeance; it isn't any less tiresome this second time around.

Scripps would like to adjust his trousers, before the tenting got anymore bleeding obvious. And how the fuck could Posner not feel the heat just under his cheek, scorching off in waves. Every breath is excruciating - both Posner's slow rhythm and his own, which must be kept steady. None of that shuddering shit he dissolves to when he's awake late at night gripping his sheets and finally allowed himself a wank, finally let the images, God the sordid images, flicker against his closed eyelids. Clenched shut so none of it will escape into the day.

He needs to spend less time with men - men everywhere, in the books, in his classes. It is only logical that he would be left to fantasizing about Posner, the most feminine of anything he has access to. He needs a bird. Just something casual. Get fucking over with. Scripps swore to do this over a year ago, so why hasn't it been a priority? He'll write it down. Yes, that's it. He'll retrieve his notebook, adjust his trousers in the process, write down get fucked on his to-do list. All his problems solved and Posner will never be the wiser.

Scripps reaches into his pocket and searches for an edge of the notebook to grip on to. In response, Posner makes a sniff of annoyance and settles in more snugly. He could feel Every. Inch. of the jut of Posner's cheekbone, the shape of his nose and fuck no, not lips, not the parting of curved, pliable lips made chapped and red by the wind. Yes, chapped, think chapped, think cracked, typical Posner lips made all the drier through the constant worrying of them by his teeth. Flashes of white teeth, a tongue, slightly wetting that mouth and the clouds of warm air - if he just rolls a bit... It is no good. Scripps is stuck on the thought of Posner's pathetic mouth in tantalizingly close distance to his dick. And if Posner keeps up his breathing, and Christ who stops breathing, his overactive imagination would make a mess right here in the back quad.

Scripps redoubles his efforts in manoeuvring his notebook from his pocket and on to his knee. And then the search for a functional pen.

"Would you stop fidgeting?" Posner turns his head and readjusts his shoulders.  
"You know, I never consented to being reduced to a cushion."  
"But you haven't complained either."  
"Exactly. And you're doing a poor show of honouring that good will."  
"If you're going to be prissy about it." Posner gives Scripps' leg a nudge with his head and sits up sleepily.

Scripps leaps at the opportunity to grab a book from the stack, a nice big thick one. Spreads it in his lap. Make like he's searching for something of utmost urgency. Heat rises in waves. It's ridiculous, this pantomime and he could feel Posner's eyes on him. When he finally looks up a few moments later, having copied down a verse that blurred into his eyes and straight out of his head, Scripps finds Posner still staring at him.

Posner blinks slowly. "You've gone completely mad now. That's my complete anthology of Bryon. You're not even taking that class. And you're blushing."

Scripps chokes out a non committal sound and grabs onto the book more tightly, so the edges dig into his palms. "'s interesting. I might. Next term. Never know. Bryon's right up there in the canon. Next to Coleridge. And I am taking Coleridge. It is Bryon, after all." he finishes lamely. None of that made sense. He's blabbing. Scripps knows it, and he hates it.

A look of incredulous comprehension dawns on Posner's face. "You're trying to hide a hard-on."

Posner reaches for the book. This isn't going to end well. Scripps could stand up, maybe. Leap, run away. Forget the books. Forget Posner. Forget this ever happened because God it was embarrassing. But Scripps is frozen. Posner tugs. He pulls. Scripps sets down his forearms, and anchors them with his elbows, but Posner is persistent if anything.

In choosing inaction, he has still chosen and Scripps hears rushing in his ears just as his sweaty palms finally slip. The two books collapse into his lap and in the mess of limbs, hands and fingers, Posner's hand brushes against the unmistakable bulge. Scripps is mortified to find his hips jerking up at the contact and a groan escaping his lips.

Posner falls back, startled. He looks at Scripps, eyes wide. And then he moves, head down and narrow shoulders bobbing. He is climbing, legs planted on either side of Scripps. Perched on Scripps, trapping him. Is it possible to climb and perch? Climbing on a perch. Scripps snaps out of his trance and tries to pull back, only to find that Posner has grabbed both his wrists.

"Posner, what you doing?"  
"Shut up. Before I lose my nerve."

And Scripps is being kissed. Kissed kissed kissed. How versatile a word. Kissed by Suzie from next door kissed during Spin the Bottle at his cousin's birthday party. Kissed kissed kissed. It's not a good kiss. Not the nice sort featured on the telly, not the peck of lips, but messy, oh so messy. Posner is eager, his hands everywhere: held against the line between jaw and neck, in his hair, around his back, fingers reaching under his collar and it isn't a good kiss, it isn't. But Scripps' body seems to think otherwise. Heat thronging under the surface, skin rippling with tingles everywhere, completely embarrassing little moans and gasps and God, what are his hands doing? His traitorous hands running all over Posner like a messy five year old fondling a new toy, a piece of chocolate.

He is being pushed and Scripps lets himself lean back and rest on his elbows, hips arching up against the pleasant weight. It is Posner who breaks off, breathing heavily.

"Shit. Grass stains."  
"Those were my pristine shirtsleeves you were scrubbing into the ground. You attacked me."  
"You got the hard on."  
"A brilliant defence. I attacked this man, your honour, because - wait for it - he had a woody."  
"Oh, fuck off."

It is the second time Posner's shut him up. More than a mite cocky. God forbid he starts turning into Dakin.

"Well? Stop looking pensive. Are you doing to kiss me or not. I kissed you. And you seemed to like it."

That smirk is not allowed, Scripps decided. As much as it accentuated Posner's lips, it needed to be wiped off immediately.

Scripps grabs Posner's shirt with both hands, tugs him down, and rolls on top. Posner looks dazed. A little breathless, he asks "What are you waiting for? Another fucking invitation?" His lips quirking up. "And I don't think that's a euphemism either."

In answer, Scripps shoves a hand between their bodies. His fingers catch on Posner's waistband and he lightly strokes the skin underneath. Posner sighs softly, and shifts, sliding a leg between Scripps' thighs. The pleasant pressure is back, and he returns the favour by grinding against the hard length poking into his hip. This elicits an intake of breath from Posner, a tremble that he feels rather than hears and leaves his entire body tingling. Posner's hands are roving as well, creeping under Scripps' shirt and sliding splayed between his shoulder blades. They flex as Scripps works apart the buttons at the top of Posner's zip and then his own. He is soon panting, lost in delicious contrast of warm friction of corduroy and cool air. His fingers trapped between their hips continue their strokes, driven on by Posner's moans muffled against his shoulder. Scripps feels his body uncoiling, and allows a groan of anticipation to reverberate from his lips pressed to Posner's neck, before pressing down and collapsing, his fingers twitching still mid stroke with a squeeze. Posner pushes up against his hand twice and shudders violently. He cries out, his voice high as if raised in song.

Afterwards, it is Posner who speaks first. "Does this mean you'll be going to confessional next week?"  
"Now he is green, dry and stained. With the shadow in his mouth."  
Posner looks over, shoulders hunched in the half-light and mouth already turning miserable. Scripps keeps his mind blank, and reaches out to take Posner's hand. He holds it. He closes his eyes. And for the moment, he allows a tentative smile to unfurl across his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The quotation is from The Death of Saint Narcissus by T.S Eliot.


End file.
